


Love Of A Different Sort

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angry John, Confused Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft is a git, Strange Attraction, john is upset, warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: What draws James Moriarty and Sherlock to one another. It's questionable. Very much so
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	Love Of A Different Sort

_Barts Hospital. On the roof. 10 am_

That is the text I sent minutes ago to him, well aware no answer was forthcoming. He will appear, I have no doubt.  
Someone else lately held Sherlock's attention, and this doctor, this John Watson, was a source of irritation. He was Sherlock's flatmate. His blogger. And my possible rival.

Taking a seat on the parapet, a foot dangling over the edge, I watch the door fly open, and there he is, coat billowing around his slender frame, curls fluttering in every direction. Glancing around, as always his inquisitive self.  
"How good to see you, Sherlock," I say as if we were two friends meeting for tea.  
"Likewise," his hands hidden behind his back, his usual composure covering the underlying struggle, the strain. Both mental and physical. A cat and mouse game we play, toying with each other.

"And so here we are. Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. You, the supposed angel, and me the villain. You, the consulting detective to my consulting criminal. I perpetrate a crime, and you solve it. I escape, and you pursue but never capture."  
The excitement of his being so close. It's a drug I never want to lose. I'm itching to tear him apart. To stroke that smug look off with a tender caress of my fingers.

He holds still, hands by his side, staring at some remote spot, not submitting.  
Hoisting myself off the edge, I walk near him, "Ah there! Do I have to be the instigator?" circling round, on the bare edge of touching.  
Sherlock peers above the top of my head but doesn't budge. Awaiting my message. My reason for our rendezvous.  
"What a waste of a beautiful specimen of a man. To think you and John Watson--,"  
His features tighten, deeper now than before," Ignore John. I don't understand what direction this encounter will be taking but disregard him. "  
"Oh, don't give me that guff. The whole of London thinks you two are--" I huff, occupying his space, on my toes, my face close enough to feel his breath. It's entirely too much, and I move out of his range, his essence, his scent.  
My determination drains, leaving me exposed.  
I squat down, leaning against the discolored red masonry chimney. Tapping my palm on the tarred surface, indicating the detective take up the position by my side, he delivers a half-hearted shrug.  
"Come. Let's chat."  
"I don't chat," he firmly states, still upright. He's trying so hard to cover his determination in finding out and evaluating the circumstances. Determining the probabilities.  
"Aww, come on. Have a seat here. We have much to discuss."  
He crouches down, bending his knees, dodging my gaze.  
"Sherlock, we're on opposite sides of the law and have had our share of the spotlight at various times. Could we forget our discord and form a connection today?"  
"In what way are you suggesting? "  
I reach out with a finger, ready to slide it along his cheek, but he quickly backs off. He's stunned that I would try to touch him. In trying to calm him, my index finger is in front of my lips, and I utter, "shh. Let me."  
I angle closer toward him, and our shoulders meet, touch, lending a closeness we hadn't had before.  
My eyes can't bear looking fixedly at those velvet lips. I have to do something with them. So soft, docile. Could it be he's never experienced a kiss?  
The strange charged atmosphere kicks up, and tremors pass between us.  
Sherlock strains against me, and it is myself that brushes, touches our lips.  
His tongue inches out, probing and I admit him eagerly.  
He draws away with a bewildered look, and for a flash, I see something meaningful pass across his face. An intense enchantment, a craving?  
As if he's discovered a new awareness, his face flushes. He slumps further onto the ground; his legs stretch out. He loosens and moves closer, much closer, and this time he initiates. He allows those bow lips to touch mine. His tongue prods before inching into my mouth.  
It's heady, seductive. It's what I've been waiting for. To claim him.  
He falls away, his eyes wide, mouth open.  
The mood darkens. The moment ends.  
Acting swiftly, he rises and runs for the stairwell door, opens it, and disappears.  
My head falls between my knees; despair blackens my thoughts. I had him. Almost.

* * *

John Watson would be enraged if he learned I was meeting James Moriarty with no backup. On my own. My solitary research would give me guidance in understanding Moriarty's thought processes.  
What possesses him to suggest Barts's roof is beyond my perception. Is he implying that I leap? Is he going to? What about the roof signifies anything unique? For one, it surely was private. There would be no intervention from outsiders or associates. Certainly not Mycroft. I question whether his CCTV cameras would have any motivation to be guard dogs in this area.

I open the door, the gust of wind hitting my face. There the master criminal sits, coolly dangling his right foot over the ledge, hinting at his reckless, impulsiveness for life that speaks so eloquently to his personality.  
Swinging his leg over, he stands, moves in close, his coat swaying against mine, his scent attacks my nose. Musky, the confidence of a bull sniffing to mate.  
I should withdraw, depart before this proceeds to an uncontrollable level. But there still lies beneath it all a certain voyeurism. Other than our obsession, why we are meeting in this way and this place. If I tried to define what is the allure, it would be the almost friendly feud, the contest to see who will win that draws us together. Is there something more profound?  
Motioning to have me sit by him, I falter, yet the overpowering impulse to be close drives me to slide down next to him.  
Nothing, no sound other than the traffic below and the wind above.  
We look into each other's eyes. James eyes, those inky orbs that penetrate.  
Without evaluating the circumstances, I incline towards him, my eyes never leaving that tempting mouth. It begs. Kiss these lips. Kiss them. My subconscious self is disturbed at that imagery. But as if enticed to it, I press my mouth to his. His magnetism lures me, draws me in even further. I hold, in my mind's eye, the spectacle of him lying on this very ground, body exposed to the wind, the brightness of the sun. I don't understand the significance of this phenomenon occurring, my senses overwhelmed.  
I leap up and retreat to the door, never glancing behind.

* * *

It's not been half an hour and my mobile rings. My older brother Mycroft! I throw the mobile on the sofa, not answering. It pings further, and I grasp the fact that if left ignored he will be filling my flat within minutes.  
Hitting the answer button with enough force, the phone slips out of my hand, landing on the floor. I scoop it up, "What?" shrieking.  
"Sherlock Holmes. You will be down those steps and in my car within ten seconds, or I'll have one of my lackeys pick you up bodily," crackling over the speaker.  
Huffily, "I'm not going anyplace with you."  
I hear the downstairs door open, and it's Johns's footsteps on the stairs, plus three others. Mycroft's goons.  
"Sherlock--?" pointing at the three hulking men, irritated, and his anger just shy of coming forth, "what have you been up to?" Expecting the worst, was he?  
Sighing, I throw on my coat, turn to John, "make yourself dinner. I will be home shortly," and beat them out the door and into Mycrofts black Mercedes.

It's not to his home, however, but to his office, I've been shanghaied. He sits, back rigid, behind his large mahogany desk, his jaw set, his lips in a tight line.  
"Don't sit. This will only take a moment," staring as if to snap me in two.  
"You will refrain from any further encounters with one James Moriarty. That's not a request but a command."  
Not desiring to investigate the purpose and irritated at his directive, I hold my hand upon the door handle while he yells, "Sherlock. Did you understand me?" pounding a fist down, shaking the pencil holder.  
"And why should I accept anything you say, brother dear?" my voice soaring alongside his.  
"William Sherlock Holmes. I am not asking; I am not suggesting. I am strongly commanding you. Stay away from that man!" Loud enough that he could be heard two offices down the hallway.  
I'm startled at his conviction. But why? He has provided no basis other than the strength of his opinion.  
Again I plant my fingers round the doorknob, "why is this so significant to you? " Why him?"  
He rubs his face with a hand, "please. For once, simply take my advice that he is not a person to associate with." My brother's voice pitches lower, and he's imploring--no, in a straightforward language he's begging. Why?  
"Is it because he is a seasoned lawbreaker? Apprehensive your brother would discover his career increasingly more engaging--exciting?"  
"On the off chance that that will hinder you from associating with him, then yes. If on the off chance it proceeds forward I won't meddle in any dealings with the police. You will be all alone."  
But there is more, something much deeper.  
Shutting the half-open door, I step in closer, "what is behind this, Mycroft? I am mindful of numerous things you are not saying. For example, when I researched his background, there is no history. Even in the encoded government data. "  
The area around his eyes tighten, and I grin, "he's a double spy. Correct?"  
Mycroft steps around the desk and walks to the coat rack, and removes his coat. He does not challenge." All data regarding that man is restricted. Goodbye Sherlock," and exits.  
Leaving me to contemplate what is the truth of the situation.

John rises from his armchair, while I dump myself onto the sofa and turn my face away from him, burying it in the back cushion.  
"What the hell was that about?" he says.  
"Shut up John," I unceremoniously yell out.  
What had occurred? From the gathering on the rooftop to Mycrofts declaration? And addressing the what was--how would I disregard the eager hunger to return and relive the episode on the rooftop? What could the outcome have been? I may have responded alternately had I comprehended my emotions. But--what are those sensations? I need to investigate them more profoundly. Need uninterrupted alone time.

* * *

I wake with a start. The night lights of London are illuminating the sky, and I pause for a second to think about the fact that I'm still the rooftop of Barts Hospital. So it wasn't a dream. Wasnt some fantasy that overtook me. Sherlock did join me. Did, in fact kiss me. And then ran away.  
Setting one hand on the ground I stiffly push up, trying to stretch my legs.  
Running one hand over my hair and face, I realize where, earlier this evening, the course of events finally wound up. I never expected it to run this course. Oh. but you so hoped so!  
If Sherlock had professed his attraction to the doctor, I would have--and here I stumble. But he said nothing. Nothing either way. What would you have done if he told you he loved John? Did you think you would push him over the edge? Why not get rid of John Watson? You've been over this more than once, you know.  
Walking down the steps, sliding my hand along the metal railing, I remember thinking this through and each time come to a somewhat different conclusion. First, to rid Sherlock's world of John Watson. That would only incur Sherlock's rage. Second, if Sherlock is not enamored with the blond doctor, would that mean--and here is where I stop each time. Do you understand what it would be like to have Sherlock in your bed? The meeting of the two minds? You, James Moriarty, are a mental mess! 

* * *

Twice in the same number of days I'm required to be at the lab at the hospital, and it demands my self-control not to gaze toward the rooftop. Each time though, I dispute within myself, whether he's engaging in similar apprehensions. I admit I desire another confrontation. To what purpose? To what end? It would be disastrous. And I have to think about John. How would he take it? Would my entanglement, however brief, destroy any hope of my relationship, however tentative, with John? I still cannot count on any union other than a friendship. A live-in partner. If I --no. John or James. James or John.

* * *

The next evening, John and I join the police at the Barkleys home on Church Avenue. A tornado has hit the parlor and bedroom. Everything smashed and upturned. Mister Barkley had opened the safe to remove a pearl necklace and studs for his wife. He heard the racket of glass shattering, abandoned what he was doing, and ventured into the parlor. And somebody knocked him in the head from behind. The medics were already examining him. The contents from the safe were emptied.  
John is addressing the details with the Inspector when my mobile rings. I take some steps away and look.

_meet me at Crystal Park at two a.m by the triceratops, and the jewelry is yours. JM_

John, having heard the sound, looks up from the clipboard he's holding, and asks, flipping the paper, not giving much thought to me," I guess that's Mycroft calling?"  
"Yes," my tone sharp.  
The doctor regards me with an inquisitive expression. "Never knew him to be interested in something this trivial. Any idea what he wants?"  
I choose not to reply, wave my hand and slip out of the house, my investigation concluded.

* * *

Chrystal Park is a wonderland for children with its lifelike and lifesize sculptures of numerous metal sculpted dinosaurs.  
But now, after the sun has set and with only the path lights to illuminate, they grant a ghostly quality to the grassy hills. 

I pause for a minute to appreciate the clear sky and the diminishing sound of the traffic passing by as I meander further into the wilderness of the park.  
I begin to envision the outstretched arms of Mycrofts agents running up, grabbing me under the arms and pushing me into a black car. But nothing like that occurs. 

* * *

He's perched, legs crossed, on the park bench directly across from the metal monster, and I stop in front, gazing up at it, endeavoring to sustain my composure. My inner self is being shredded in bits.  
"Sit," patting the bench precisely as he had done to the roofs tar covering.  
He giggles, "I'm repeating myself aren't I?"  
When I don't respond, he declares, "I think we're both wary of each other. Am I right?"  
I nod and with feigned casualness, sit, adjusting my coat, enclosing it about me as if to shield me from whatever will follow next.  
"Sherlock--,"  
"James--," speaking our names in unison.  
I gesture toward him giving him the approval to talk.  
"If you don't mind my asking? Was that a one-shot, or is there--, "trailing off.  
"No, I understand the hormonal momentum in the atmosphere became illogical and--,"  
He frowns, taking offense.  
His scientific gobbledygook is offputting, "Oh, cut the crap, Sherlock. We were fucking turned on by each other. That's all. Don't need you to go into fancy, schmancy explanations."

James turns his body and moves nearer, pulling at the lapels of my coat, drawing me in closer. Close enough for our knees to hit, for our shoulders to meet.  
His dizzying black eyes bore deep into my being. The warmth works deep into my gut and combines with a hunger to press my lips to his.

* * *

"What the fuck--," the outcry startles us as John appears out of the dark, propelling his body into James, tumbling them onto the ground.  
"Get away from him, you shithead!" John rolls on top of James, wildly lashing out.  
"John, leave him be," seizing the doctor from behind, yanking him off James, both breathless.  
"I heard you leave the flat and wondered where you were going," between breaths. "I'll call the police," and exposes the mobile in his hand.  
I whack at it, and it clatters to the ground.  
John glances up, alarmed--and stupefied, "fuck. Why?"  
Providing a hand to James, I assist him upright.  
He brushes off his trousers with one hand while I maintain my grasp on his person. I acknowledge his desire to escape.  
"John. Go home," sharply said, trusting he'll be quick to anger and do precisely that.  
"Not while you're with this madman. What has he got that you want?" his eye fastened on the two hands held.  
"John. I'm managing on my own exceptionally well. I prefer you'd stay out of my affairs!" biting those words. My jaw tightens.  


John crosses his arms, his legs spread wide, his muscles tight, "no." That single sound is chilling as an ice cube and as unyielding.  
"Sherlock. Go," James says, shrugging off my hold. He arranges his collar up and without an extra glance, wheels around, and down the path into darkness.  
Follow him, I say, intense logic giving way to emotional irrationality. Pursue him.  
I follow his form as it disappears, transfixed until John grips my arm and wrenches me out of my trance.

* * *

How does he always find me? Of course, he would! He's the great Mycroft Holmes! He probably can tell when I go to the loo, whom I screw and even what I eat.  
The content of his text left no doubt in my head that he was commanding me to visit him. Not a request but a god damn order!

There he is, leaning against his desk, arms folded, expression pinched, his eyes blazing.  
"Oh, I know, I know. You want me to lay off Sherlock," walking the carpeted floor of his sterile office. My hands can't help but find their way into my pockets. Nerves.  
"Mister Moriarty. You're leaving me no option. I'm quite capable, as you well know--" not ending that sentence. His composure, his self assured act coils my stomach.  
He could order in his goons right this instant and have me carted off. But that's not his intention. And I cannot explain the why.  
Toe to toe, my nose level with his chin, "and if I don't? You'll do what? Restrain me and lock me up. I'll give the game away. Inform the media that your brother and I were--"  
"Were what? Mister Moriarty. You know perfectly well that once incarcerated, anything you state would be discredited."  
As he stares above me I, recognize we're at an impasse.  
I chuckle, "lay off me, Mister Holmes," hissing. " Why are you doing this now? You've permitted me to maintain my illegal enterprises without interference, but now--" taking a step back to examine him. He and his handcrafted suits, his carefully preserved composure. How does he do it?  
He cocks an eyebrow," Mister Moriarty, I constantly fret about Sherlock," and with a sigh, he straightens up, and continues, "and it's not a topic for compromise. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Mycroft has given fair warning to James. With substantial consequences, I'm sure. It is just like him.  
But, James does not frighten easily by mere declarations. For the mass quantity of James' crimes, Mycroft or the NSY could have captured him years prior. But he survives still, to be able to succeed at his numerous unlawful projects.

* * *

I'm lying in bed, my hair still dripping from the shower, with a book I'm going to read sitting on my duvet when the familiar tone of a text lands.

_Come out, come out. I'm ready to play. Barts roof_

Resistance is futile. With a sigh, I tumble out of bed, clothe myself, tread lightly over the creaky floorboard, and hail a taxi to the institute.

* * *

He smiles from ear to ear when I step out onto the surface of the roof and moves to be close. I take steps backward, apprehensive of the intimacy.  
"You can't go too far unless you want to tumble off the roof. And that would be a shame," his jolly air is off-putting. I'm expecting more solemnity at this moment.  
"Why don't we get off this roof. It's not that romantic, eh Sherlock," his arms wrap across his body, "and we can get a room, one with a bed would be--,"  
"James. I don't know why I contemplated this meeting, but--,"  
His arms stretch out, checking my words, "oh, really, Sherlock? It isn't about thinking; it's about doing. And I would so enjoy the thought of reaching into your soul--to. But--why, if you're not here for the same reason, are you even lingering?"  
His hand dives into his coat pocket, "Oh, by the way, before I forget," and he holds out the jewelry," keeping them against his frame. With his other hand, his fingers signal, "Come on, baby. Let's play. A kiss, or--,"  
"No," retreating. Cracking open the door, I have one foot on the landing.  
"Or--How about only some old fashioned necking," his lips smacking, tongue lapping at his lips.  
I follow that tongue as it plays against those enticing lips, let go of the door, take two strides nearer, maneuver him into my embrace, and unlock his lips with my tongue. Our tongues conflict, lips crush.  
James breaks the hold and whispers, "I want more. Downstairs--," reaching for the door.  
"No, I cannot," I counter, pulling on the door, retreating.  
I continue to stare at the door, then pound on it with my fists. He leaves me breathless, frustrated, and hopeless.

* * *

I surge up the stairs to the flat, hoping that John is not awake. My hopes are dashed when he's sitting in my chair in his pajamas, His hands clench and unclench, his nostrils flare.  
"You're a fucker. A shitting fuck, you understand that! You went where and with who?" through clenched teeth.  
"John," by now I'm so confused," I need your help," nearly moaning, covering my face.  
He stands, his eyes brimming with concern, his body unwinding, "You're not hurt, are you?"  
All anger drains from him.  
"No, tumbling ungracefully into my chair, my hands masking my shame, loathing," I don't have a clue how to stop this--this."  
He steps to the chair and kneels, his hands resting gently on my knees, "are you talking about Moriarty?"  
It's more than that I now surmise. How do I specify in words that I crave copulation with a male? To John. Would he be so offended he'd collect his belongings and go? Would he understand? And--how to explain that my emotions for him are additionally compromised.  
I direct my gaze to somewhere above John's head, "never mind. I'll work it out."  
"No, Sherlock. Whatever it is, you know we work together. Tell me. I'll help."  
One hand has been sliding all over my thigh, and the electrical connection equals the contact I had with James. I must have time to digest this new data.  
"John, I want to rest," and I push him away, securing the door to my room and halting any further dialogue.

* * *

I awake with a start, sit up and wipe my eyes. Instantly I grasp that John isn't home. Staring at the clock, I mark the hour at six twenty-five am, and I identify that today is not Johns's time at the surgery. But he is not in the flat. Where has he gone? Suspicion takes hold. Hurrying to get dressed I brush my fingers through my hair, run outside and call a taxi.

* * *

I burst into Mycrofts waiting room, and without a nod to his secretary, proceed towards his office, while his secretary calls out, "Mister Holmes, you can't--."  
Disregarding her, I bang his door wide against the wall. Mycroft stiffens behind that shield of a desk.  
John is in the exact place I anticipated, and he's unmistakably hostile. Eyes flashing blue, hands at his sides, clenched, standing erect.  
Both sets of eyes level at me, both antagonistic.  
"John, why are you here?" uncertain how to proceed.  
"Sherlock," he sighs, shaking his head, his body relaxes a bit, "If you must know, I'm attempting to discover out why your damnable brother--."  
Mycroft's eyes widen upon hearing Johns's profanity. Indeed, he's heard him swear previously yet never straightforwardly connected with himself.  
John continues, but his questions are for Mycroft, "For what reason is Moriarty not in custody, in prison or dead. You must have enough on the man to--"  
My brothers' hands clasp in front and steeple under his jawline, "gentlemen, if you will sit, I will clarify. However--kindly do sit."  
John pulls a chair close to the desk, but I lean against the wall, reluctant to yield.  
Sighing, Mycroft motions to the vacant seat. Further continuation of my defiance would only become a tug of war in which I would lose. I shove it close to John's chair, and, flipping my coat behind, sit, crossing my legs and my arms.  
"I cannot divulge the association between our organization and James Moriarty. We are aware of his projects and retain tight surveillance."  
John stares up, his mouth twists, unmistakably outraged.  
"He is massively implicated in multiple smuggling organizations. We have, on occasion, shut them down by retaining many of his colleagues. It is our intention across all the authoritative organizations, to allow Mister Moriarty to proceed. Does that answer your inquiries, gentlemen?"  
He lifts off the chair, venturing around the desk as he speaks, "if you pardon me, I have more pressing issues to deal with," abruptly leaving.  
John, disbelieving what he heard, his eyes wide, says," can you accept that? That tosser. How does he get to determine which fucking criminal runs free!" Picking himself off the chair, complaining concluded, he motions to me, " Since there is nothing to be done here, let's go home."

* * *

Neither of us has a word to say in the taxi. I cannot bring myself to try to explain my actions to John. Once at the flat, John removes himself to his room.  
I lie on the sofa, my mind in confusion. Formation of sexual thoughts has never intruded within my private life. Now, within range, two have surfaced—one cheeky and prepared to advance our alliance. The other only a dream, an enthusiasm, a seed growing in its origin.  
Moriarty! The overlord of the underbelly of London. His eyes so incredibly dark, intense. His laughter and ability to snicker even in the most traumatic situations. His over the top flirtatiousness.  
Doctor John Watson. Upstanding, consistent, never faltering in his feeling of rightness, of companionship. Would he yield to a modest display of my affection? Could it ever evolve into more than our partnership as flatmates?

* * *

Is Sherlock just as baffled by this intense link between us as I am?  
I, James Moriarty, master criminal discover that where it regards Sherlock, I can't decipher, can't make sense of the bond that attaches us.  
On account of my unique circumstances, I have never admitted another person into my private life. It was easy enough to shrug off the attentions of the wrestler. He was too demanding of my time.  
Easy to untangle from the exotic waitress I met at the Chinese restaurant.  
And when it came to Jesse, well, that turned into an issue. He was a handsome male prostitute, a most elegant male specimen who was as fantastic a cook as a lover. I mainly got snagged up in the passion of the moment. It wasn't until he started to get curious about where my money came from that signaled the end. I was depressed for weeks.  
Never in any of my associations have I discovered someone who I couldn't throw away when done with. There was no option. Work took precedence over my personal life.  
But now, this curly-headed so-called detective has me flummoxed. He's become a recording in my head. I am playing both visual and vocal consistently everywhere I go or everything I do. I can't do this. Can't lie back and let it keep revolving, spinning out of control. A showdown is required. Either Sherlock is mine, or-. He's distracting, disrupting my work.

* * *

_Meet on the roof. tomorrow 11am. Cannot continue without confirmation either way. Are you with me or not?_

* * *

Upon viewing that text, my hand shivers as I flip the phone onto the sofa. My insides twist, my mind goes offline. I all but assumed it wouldn't have been long before James and I have a decisive encounter. But--how will it expire? Or begin? Each turn has-- I am not clear.  
But, within minutes, I hear my phone, jump, glancing at the clock and next at the cushion where my phone insistently signals.  
'What does he want?' under my breath, finger tapping to read the missive Mycroft sent. 

_Expect no assignation tomorrow on any rooftop. Mister Moriarty will arrive at my office or face imprisonment. Eleven a.m. Require your presence with John. Will brook no opposition._

* * *

"Mister Holmes will speak with you, Mister Moriarty," a soft-voiced woman opens the phone communication between myself and Mycroft Holmes.  
"Mister Moriarty. Your meeting with my sibling on a specific rooftop won't occur. Rather, you will be available in my office at the stated time."  
I laugh at his ridiculousness," and if I'm not?"  
"Understand me clearly. Be at my office at eleven of your own accord or be transported here in handcuffs." I stare at my mobile as I hear the click. Ah yes! He's going to shield his little brother from the nefarious dealings of one so depraved. Me!

* * *

My brother is meddling-- once again! I'm infuriated and conclude that I will not attend. It's not for him to direct with whom I want to associate with.

* * *

"You have been restless all evening, Sherlock. Tell me what's going on," John says, pouring me a cup of tea, while I slouch in my leather chair, biting my lip.  
"For some damnable reason, Mycroft is demanding that we make an appearance in front of him tomorrow morning."  
"Both of us?" his question is understandable. I haven't told him about my visit with James.  
"Something you're not telling me?" sipping his hot tea and standing before me like he's ready to pounce if he doesn't like my answer.  
Breathing out a big sigh, I bang the cup and saucer on the table, amble to the coat holder, throw my coat upon my body, and, with a glancing back, "we're meeting with Moriarty tomorrow," and charge out the door.

* * *

Moriarty appears twelve minutes early. He stands as one used to being in charge. But there's a hint of uncertainty. His Adam's apple is prominently bobbing.  
"I don't like being threatened, you know. We've maintained an odd standoff these years. What has changed?" his feet wide apart, ready to bolt at a given moment.  
"My purpose will be revealed as soon as--," ah here you are," as my brother and his companion step into my chambers.  
Sherlock frowns, dodging the gaze of the other.  
John gazes about, his expression verging between questioning or scorn.  
"No discussion, no confronting. To start with, you will all sit down. Now!"  
Lying on my desk is a portfolio, and I turn it to face them, slowly inhale, make a sound as if to speak.  
Sherlock tips his head back, slouching in his seat. John's hands are clasped tightly around the armrests, assuming the worst. James leans forward; hands gripped between his knees.  
"The attraction between you, James Moriarty, and you Sherlock Holmes has more to do with hereditary qualities than sex, "I state.  
" Sherlock," despite everything declining to recognize anybody, "you learned months prior there does not exist any history of James' birth or childhood until university."  
"I didn't know that," James says, his head slanted to one side, "why?"  
"All will be clarified in a moment," resting my hands on the portfolio.  
"Our father, Sherlock, had an unfortunate, "clearing my throat to continue," relationship-- with an unmarried government agent. She became enceinte-- pregnant-- and maintained it was our fathers. Father took her at her word. From the outset, she demanded Father recognize the baby. She would give him the infant to raise and disappear. Mother was told and was livid."  
Sherlock has abruptly unfolded himself, scowling, " how might anyone know and I assume it was you or I? But--"  
Moving in his seat, it's apparent that James is pondering where he fits into this mess. I hold up my hand, hoping to prevent my brother from interjecting his opinions any further. "From the start, our parents were quarreling consistently. Father maintained his desire to raise the child. Mother was unfaltering in the opposite direction. When the moment arose, father was at the woman's bedside when a baby boy was born. He left mother not long after and was never heard from again."  
"So, who was it? You or Sherlock," John asks, sitting on the edge of his seat, one hand on Sherlock's knee.  
"It was not one or the other," delaying for impact, gazing upward with genuine sorrow.

* * *

" Sherlock, James is our half brother."


End file.
